Notes from Erbil – Part 1 (Omran the Proprietor)

In the unexpectedly peaceful border city of Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan, on a bustling side street of the Grand Bazaar, there is a quaint little restaurant named, unimaginatively, “The Cedar Tree”.  Since most of my colleagues who service Iraq are from Beirut, after some initial haggling we invariably find ourselves at a Lebanese eatery.  This place is modest, the food is delectable, and the service prompt and pleasant.  One could take advantage of corporate travel perks and opt for up market fare, but sometimes the heart desires simplicity, the feet some respite, and the growl from deep within commands “sit down woman, eat!”.  So, The Cedar Tree it is on this particularly exhausting day.

Omran, the proprietor, is in his sunset years but has an elephant’s memory and remembers all his patrons.  As he sees me step into the restaurant, he hollers “Wallah, Thamina al Bakistan…Ahlan, Marhaba!”.  I have just concluded a five hour long strategy workshop with a client’s digital transformation team, young professionals scaling the competency and attention spectrum from utterly clueless and disinterested to reassuringly aware and attentive.  Workshops are grueling exercises. My nerves are shot, my ears still ringing from Arabic-English commentary, and my feet are throbbing to be released from their high-heeled confines. Omran’s resounding welcome shatters my senses but the warmth in it brings a smile to face. Despite my disgruntled state and regardless of the provisions about to be served, today’s Cedar Tree experience is a success even before I begin to browse through the menu.

Omran has another peculiar practice. It would go unnoticed except that, in character, he delivers a continuous and oft-repeated account of his mission and the lives that it touches.  He seeks out ragged refugees and employs them at his establishment.  The more disheveled, emaciated and miserable the candidate, the greater Omran’s motivation to transform the wretch spectacularly.  One would suspect foul play, perhaps exploitation under the guise of benevolence? Not so with Omran. He is a standup citizen whom the community respects and trusts, a grassroots leader of sorts. Of this one is reassured equally by restaurant patrons as by Omran himself.  Over the past year, I have been served by old men, hijab-clad mothers with toddlers seated at a corner table drawing or eating or just watching, teen-aged boys and girls, and at least in one case a special needs person who originally accompanied his brother but later proved he could operate independently and earn a living.  It was a proud moment for his brother but an even prouder – and louder – moment for Omran who considers this his greatest success as a self-appointed benefactor-change maker.

The Cedar Tree is well patronized, I have seen it quite full at most times.  But old Omran’s grand design to serve humanity comes at a cost.  With random staff changes, frequent out of budget payouts and general financial disarray, I doubt that it delivers any profit or is even sustainable as a business venture.  A corporate style due diligence would discover negative ROI and poor business practice. It would recommend that the CEO and management (Omran in both cases) be fired and better practices be followed. 

Erbil is shelter to thousands of refugees displaced internally from war-torn Iraqi territories as well as from neighboring Syria. The city is lodged between Mosel and ISIS-controlled Kirkuk, household names thanks to 24/7 war reporting (read reality TV from the comfort of your couch in your superficially safe middle class home). The demographics of Erbil have changed in a few years due to the dramatic shift of population, and public and private service providers have had to re-evaluate, re-strategize, and re-prioritize their plans and delivery. Erbil families have lost hundreds of members, army and police men and women, in the community’s gallant effort to protect their province from ISIS, which they have done successfully thus far. 

Erbil exists in the eye of storm, stable but at risk of destruction if elements of the equation become even slightly imbalanced. 

Against this sobering background and in comparison to insurmountable problems, old Omran’s relatively insignificant venture to rehabilitate a few, pales.  His earnest devotion to the cause has brought a semblance of well-being to a mere one hundred, maybe two.  It is nothing in the colossal tragedy that is Iraq.  But he soldiers on, undeterred in his purpose, unconcerned about the enormity of the challenge.    

Amongst the many stories Omran likes to narrate about those who have been saved, there is one he repeats most often; his own. In an endearing cacophony of Arabic-English which he considers his mastery of both languages, he has told me the story a number of times.

As a young boy, Omran migrated with his family from war torn Lebanon to Iraq for safety and better prospects.  They were a dismal bunch when they arrived in what was then arguably the most modern and progressive of Arab countries.  His mother was pregnant with his little sister, his brother was asthmatic and often unwell, and his father gave in to fatigue and depression early and died.  He and his mother took jobs washing dishes and cleaning tables at a humble little eatery; “in comparison to it, The Cedar Tree is Maxim’s!” Omran guffaws.  His baby sister lay quietly on a cot in the corner while his mother washed dishes, and he learnt languages, mannerisms and the trade while he cleaned tables, took orders and served meals. His brother’s health improved and he was able to join school.  Life did not offer them much better fare than what they had in their village in Lebanon, but it became comfortable and prospects for his brother and sister improved. 

The owner of the establishment where his mother and he were employed was a burly, hollering old man who had a peculiar practice to employ rag-tag refugees. People warned him that such presumptuous generosity would bring him no wealth, that he would be ruined in no time.  The old man never listened.

Image credit: The bread I ate looked just like this. This one's from the great eyes of Google since the old man was not too keen on getting clicked. Next time I see him, I promise I'll get one for you all.